


They Ain't You

by MrsWhozeewhatsis (OxfordCommaLover)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Blade, Gen, Mark of Cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 15:33:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15197849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OxfordCommaLover/pseuds/MrsWhozeewhatsis
Summary: Not listing a summary because of spoilers. I chose "Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings" because there is one sentence that MIGHT be considered a graphic depiction of violence. I don't think it's enough for a warning. If you disagree, let me know and I'll change it!





	They Ain't You

**Author's Note:**

> This is my second (and final, not gonna get a third out like I usually do, I’m afraid) submission for the 2018 Louden Swain Fanfic Fanart Project (feat. The Station Breaks). This is based on the song They Ain’t You by The Station Breaks. It’s not really what you’d expect after hearing the song, but I wasn’t inspired by the obvious reader-insert Dean fic the song almost screams for. When I got this idea, though, I sent it to @littlegreenplasticsoldier with a message asking, “Am I nuts?” She seemed to think my nuts-level was close to my usual, so here you go!
> 
> Special thanks to @manawhaat and @littlegreenplasticsoldier for cleaning up my messes. Extra-special thanks to Mana for practically writing the whole first paragraph, because she’s my awesome weapons expert.

Dean was six years old the first time John put a weapon in his hand- John’s Marine issued 9mm. The gun itself was light enough for Dean to handle without too much trouble, but the warnings that came with it put a tremble in his small hands. “It’s not a toy, Dean. Treat it like it’s always loaded, even if it ain’t. Check and double check the safety. Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to shoot. Only use it if you have no other choice. Know what’s beyond what you’re shooting at- bullets don’t just stop at your target. Don't point it at anything or anyone you don’t want dead. Never leave it where Sammy can reach it.”

Dean feared its sheer power, at first, knowing in his young mind that with this in his hands, he had the potential to be a decider of life and death. When he hit the target on the first try, though, his father's praise helped lighten his unease. With time, he gained knowledge, experience, and accuracy, which earned him more of John’s ever-increasingly rare smiles. The pride in his eyes gave Dean a glimpse of the man his dad was before the fire. That was enough to make Dean fall in love with it.

Throughout Dean's training, he handled a wide variety of weapons. Handguns, shotguns, rifles, crossbows, switchblades, daggers, machetes, swords, tasers, and stun guns were the most common, but John made sure to teach him how to use anything and everything in his surroundings. Furniture could be broken up, bottles smashed, pots and pans thrown, towels or clothing twisted into rope to snag a bad guy and throw them off balance. In hunting, when lives were on the line, nothing was out of bounds.

There were some weapons that Dean took to immediately and mastered quickly. He much preferred the heavy swing of a machete to the short reach of a switchblade, but a sword was long enough to make him feel clunky and uncoordinated. The sniper rifle also took more time to master, but only because he had a hard time being patient enough. He was a man of action and sitting still for hours waiting for his target did not come easily for him. He did it, though. Every time John threw something new at him, Dean worked and worked and worked until he was flawless.

For his sixteenth birthday, instead of a car -- Dean had secretly hoped to get the keys to the Impala, but that wouldn’t officially happen for two more years -- John gave him his very own handgun. It was a beautifully engraved .45 caliber Colt M1911A1 with ivory grips and a 7-round magazine. Dean had admired it the last time they went for ammo, but he never expected to get it. However, John handed it over and told him, “This is yours. You’re in charge of maintaining it so it doesn’t take your hand off. Treat it well, and it will return the favor.”

Dean treated that Colt with the same reverence he gave the Impala. He cleaned her regularly and took pride in her shine as he shot silver bullets into werewolves. When he turned eighteen and John handed over the keys to the Impala, Dean went through every weapon in the arsenal. He cleaned each gun, knife, and rosary until Sam complained he was getting blinded by the shine every time he opened the trunk. When he was done, he felt a kinship with each and every item in that trunk. He knew every single one intimately and could identify and maintain everything with his eyes closed.

When the brothers found the bunker and picked out their rooms, Dean’s first choice in decoration was weapons that he’d retired for one reason or another: his first sawed-off that John had been saving in his storage locker, the grenade launcher that Sam would never let him use, and the bone-and-stone monstrosity he brought with him when he left Purgatory. After a while, he collected some vinyl records and family pictures, but the weapons were his first choice. Each one was special in its own way and seeing them beautifully displayed swelled his heart.

This is how, for the first thirty-five years of Dean Winchester’s life, if you had asked him what his favorite weapon was, he’d have had to think about it. He might have mentioned his Colt, partly because it was the first weapon that was truly his and his father gave it to him. He might have mentioned the more famous Colt, the one made by Samuel Colt, himself, while Halley’s comet soared overhead. Ultimately, though, his answer would have probably been, “Whatever gets the job done.”

When Cuthbert Sinclair pressed the First Blade into his hand, all of that changed.

If he ignored the burning power that engulfed his right arm, and the throbbing pulse of the Mark as it connected with the Blade, there were still reasons to prefer it over even his trusty 1911. Sure, you could shoot a monster from a safer distance, but guns needed to be reloaded. True, the 1911 was practically a piece of art, but the way the leather wrapped around the handle of the Blade had beauty to it, too. Definitely, if they ever found Samuel Colt’s gun again, it might give the Blade a run for its money, but that had been lost years ago. Besides, there were still five things in the universe the Colt couldn’t kill. The Blade had no such issues.

As much as Sam tried to convince him to leave her behind, Dean couldn’t see why. He pretended he did just to keep his brother off his back, but when you have a weapon that kills everything, why not use it? Besides, it wasn’t just that the Blade was better than everything else. When he had the Blade in his hand Dean was better than he’d ever been before. He was stronger, more graceful, his vision was sharper, and each hit met its target the first time, dead center. Even the squelch and crackle of flesh and bone bending to his will sounded like a symphony as he cut down everything that dared oppose him. Being the only person in the room that could even wield her made it his business, and his business alone, to decide if it was left behind or not. Sam had no right to an opinion.

That was why, when Sam’s back was turned, Dean tucked the Blade into his bag despite promising Sam to leave it behind. They were heading into a situation that was most likely angel trouble, given that Cas was involved, and the First Blade was way better than the angels’ shiny, oversized toothpicks any day of the week. For all Sam knew, it could be Metatron, and wouldn’t it be great if he had a chance to gank that douchenozzle, but then he couldn’t because he’d benched the one thing that could kill him? Yeah, that wasn’t happening.

Dean gazed down into his duffle at the array of guns, knives, blades, and ammo he’d used to hide that distinctive shape the Blade had, even when wrapped in leather. Each weapon had its purpose, its usefulness. But none of them were the First Blade.

***

Later, he’ll push all the other weapons aside and carefully unwrap it, running his thumb gently along the flat of it, not even realizing he’s giving it a loving smile. As he takes note of each scar that mars its surface, giving it a slightly weathered look that would be more befitting a bone several thousand years younger, he won’t even realize what he’s doing when he murmurs to it.

“Hey, beautiful.”

 


End file.
